


Gives You Delusions

by Nyxelestia



Series: Stilinski Family Feels [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Episode Related, Episode Tag, FTD, Frontotemporal Dementia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles Angst, Stilinski Family Feels, Teen Wolf s05e06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 05:31:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4467227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyxelestia/pseuds/Nyxelestia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Stilinski does his best to take care of his family after Claudia attacked Stiles.</p><p>(It will never be enough.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gives You Delusions

“Claudia!” John screamed, watching his wife attack his son. He sprinted towards where they were, only managing to grab her wrist just before she _landed a punch on their baby boy oh god_ \- “CLAUDIA!”

“Can’t you see?” she said, struggling against his grip as he pulled her away. “Look at him! He’s trying to kill me!”

Stiles was hunched on the ground, arms thrown over his head and whimpering, trying not to look at his mother – as he’d _been_ trying all damn week.

And god, John knew it was just a disease. This wasn’t Claudia. This wasn’t the woman who fed and changed and loved their baby boy, the woman who took half of Stiles’ teachers to task for failing to address his ADHD, the woman who taught Stiles to never back down against a bully far better than John ever managed.

This was just a disease – but this disease was destroying their family and destroying their son.

“I see a little boy scared that his _mother_ is going to kill _him_!” he snapped.

He wished this were a movie or an overly-sentimental TV show – one where the fact that John would say something like that out loud, and say it without holding back the anger in his voice, would snap her out of it.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t a movie.

“Look at him!” she hissed, pleading with him desperately, and that may just be the worst part – how scared she looked, possibly more scared than Stiles. She genuinely believed her life was in danger.

Some part of John couldn’t help but wonder where that alleged parental instinct went, that one that put her child’s life above her own.

“We’re going to go back downstairs,” John said slowly. When she looked ready to protest, he added, “You’ll walk in front of me, and Stiles will be behind me – okay?”

She was breathing heavily, haggard and animalistic, and to John’s side, Stiles was trying and failing not to cry, sniffling and whimpering and still staring steadfastly at the ground.

Claudia opened her mouth, and John hated himself as he said, “I wasn’t asking.”

She was shivering, now, papery hospital gown doing nothing for her in the chilly evening air.

John started to back up, leading her around Stiles and towards the door. “Let’s go.”

“John-”

“ _Now_.”

The restrained rage in his voice wasn’t enough to snap her out of this delusion, but it was enough to cow her into coming quietly, following John until he reached the door, then stumbling through it at a gentle nudge from him.

John watched as she slowly started to descend the stairs, then turned around.

“Stiles?” he called softly.

He wasn’t looking up. He wasn’t responding. After a moment, John realized he wasn’t even _breathing_.

It killed John, just how familiar the sight of Stiles suppressing tears was.

“Stiles…” John tried again. “C’mon, Buddy, let’s go downstairs. We’ll get your mom back into bed and go…somewhere else…okay?”

Stiles hiccupped and breathed out once on a grating sob that would probably haunt John’s nightmares for the rest of his life.

His boy didn’t say anything, but Stiles slowly stood up, and started walking to John’s side-

Started _limping_ to John’s side, and that reminded John that however small Claudia seemed to him, she was still nearly twice Stiles’ size and she’d thrown herself on him in a frenzy.

As Stiles reached his side, John held out his hand, slow and low, the way he’d previously only ever used on children of abusive families.

Which Stiles possibly _was_ , now.

Stiles stopped just out of reach, still looking at the ground.

“Stiles?” he said.

“I shouldn’t get too close,” Stiles mumbled.

“Why?”

“…she’ll think I’m trying to kill you,” Stiles said. “She already thinks I’m tricking you.”

John swallowed, hands clenched into a fist.

 _Just the disease_ , he reminded himself, trying to get logic to cut through the unfair anger he felt towards his wife. _It’s not her. It’s just the disease._

“C’mon,” he said, starting to back up a little, go through the door himself while still holding it open. He glanced over his shoulder to see Claudia waiting on the landing, eyes filled with nothing but the unholy trifecta of rage, confusion, and terror. “Let’s go.”

Stiles hunched in on himself, bringing his head down even lower as he started following.

They were a depressing little procession, Claudia constantly looking over her shoulder and trying to see past John’s, trying to look at Stiles with no love in her eyes. When John glanced behind himself, Stiles was still shuffling along without looking up from the ground.

When they went through the next door and came into the top floor of the hallway, two nurses stared at them incredulously.

“Can you page anyone looking for Claudia Stilinski,” John said quietly, gently pushing Claudia towards the elevator. “And let them know we found her?”

“Of course, sir,” one said, darting ahead of Claudia towards the nurse’s desk.

The next time John glanced back at Stiles, the little boy had pulled his hood up over his head and back down over as much of his face as possible, the top of the hood coming down over his eyes as he shuffled along several feet behind John and Claudia.

Inside the elevator, he made sure to stand between Claudia and Stiles, not even letting her see him, and prayed that they would make it back to her room in one piece.

Well, one physical piece, anyway.

Once they made it down to just a hallway away from her room, two orderlies, a nurse, and Claudia’s doctor appeared, and John let them take her back to the room, only stopping the doctor to quietly let him know, “She attacked Stiles.”

The doctor didn’t even look _surprised_ , just resigned, as he nodded to acknowledge he heard. John watched as they went, disappearing into her room, before he turned his attention to Stiles.

He pushed Stiles back towards a chair in the hallway so they weren’t blocking people’s way, then crouched down so he was eye-level with his boy.

“Hey, bud,” he said softly. Stiles didn’t respond. “How’re you doing?”

Stiles remained silent, and that – that shouldn’t _work_ , ‘Stiles’ and ‘silent’ did not belong together at all.

John reached for Stiles’ face, wanting to tilt his chin up and get a good look at the damage, but Stiles flinched away, taking a step back and still not making a single sound.

Forget the whimpers from earlier – this silence would probably haunt John to his grave.

He curled his hand and instead reached down, slowly, gently taking Stiles’ hand into his own.

“Just let me look at your face,” he said softly. “I want to…”

 _See the damage_. The damage that his wife inflicted on their son.

“Can you please look at me?” he said, and then immediately regretted the word choice as Stiles almost violently shook his head, taking another step back and bumping into the chair.

John swallowed down the lump forming in his throat.

He opened his mouth to try again, only to be cut off by a quiet, “John?”

At Melissa’s voice, he turned to see her holding out two gel ice packs, some sterile wipes, a tube of some kind of cream, and a bottle of liquid bandage. 

“They told me what happened,” she said quietly as he took the first-aid supplies from her. “Let us know if you need anything else, okay?”

John suspected ‘anything else’ wasn’t about whatever injuries Stiles had, now.

He nodded silently, and she patted his shoulder in support before briskly walking off to continue doing her job.

John set the little kit down on the seat of the chair next to the one behind Stiles.

“Hey, kid,” he said, gently slipping his hands under Stiles’ arms. “Let’s get you sitting, okay?”

He lifted Stiles up a few inches, pushing him back and into the chair. Stiles immediately curled up like the world’s most depressing armadillo, burying his face in his knees and wrapping his arms around his legs.

It seemed so wrong, that people could continue walking around them. Life and death and everything in between simply went on around them while his little boy was falling apart right in front of him. The lights seemed dimmer as he watched his son’s trembling, and all the low-level chatter was drowned out by the muffled sobs coming from within the ball of misery in the chair.

John took a deep breath, and recalled everything he could remember about how to deal with abuse victims, especially abused children.

He never thought he would need it for his own son.

“Stiles,” he said, keeping his own voice as even as possible. “I’m going to touch your shoulder, okay?”

The lump of the hood nodded against the denim over the curled legs, so John gently laid his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, then slowly started to rub up and down his back, keeping the movement smooth and predictable as he said, “I know it hurts, Stiles-” In more ways than the physical. “-But I need to see your face.”

This time, he shook his head.

He still wasn’t saying a word. Now, even the sniffling had stopped.

“Stiles,” he said, and almost said _look at me_ again before remembering Claudia’s words from just ten minutes ago. “Please. Just for a few minutes, okay? I just need to make sure you’re okay.”

Stillness, then-

“’M fine.”

The shattered, watering voice alone told John just how _not fine_ Stiles was.

“Please,” John said, reduced to begging. The begging he wasn’t ashamed of, even, but the fact that he needed to, the fact that _his_ boy got hurt on _his_ watch and by _his_ wife. “Please, Stiles – let me take care of you.” _Since I couldn’t protect you._

Stillness.

Silence.

Just as John thought Stiles was about to refuse again, the hood lifted, and slowly, little bits of Stiles started to appear over the protection of his knees.

His hair. His eyes.

His scratches.

It took everything John had, all the control of his expressions and temper and grief he learned from his years as a cop, to control his reaction when he saw Stiles’ face.

More of it was scored red than not, angry evidence of Claudia’s insanity stark against the paleness of Stiles’ shocked skin. Some were even bleeding. His lower lip was split, and his left cheek was reddish-purple – probably going to bloom into a bruise by tomorrow morning.

Tear tracks cut through everything on his cheeks.

If Stiles’ whimpers and silence were going to be the sounds of John’s regrets for the rest of his life, this was probably what he would see every time he closed his eyes, in his nightmares, in-

No. Not now. He couldn’t afford to wallow when Stiles needed him.

(God, he needed a drink, needed one _so bad_.)

He reached up and grabbed one of the sterile wipes, opening the package and folding the square into a more maneuverable triangle.

“This is going to sting for a few minutes,” John said, carefully placing his hand under Stiles’ chin. “But then we can put the ice-packs on your face and it’ll hurt less, okay?”

Stiles nodded, tears already welling up in his eyes again.

Of course. The physical pain was probably the least of his worries, right now.

Quickly but carefully, he wiped down all the lines of red, clearing away the tiny drops of blood and the dried up tear trails. He made sure to disinfect everything as much as possible, made sure nothing could potentially get infected.

John expected Stiles to whimper or hiss from the pain, but he didn’t. He didn’t even cry again. His face was blank and frozen as a statue, and somehow that was worse than any noise or expression Stiles could have made.

The tube turned out to be anti-scar cream.

Because while none of the scratches were deep, no one wanted scars on their face – least of all a scar inflicted by their own mother.

Christ.

He rubbed down all the lines, a single shuddering breath the only indication that Stiles felt the stinging this was no doubt causing. Out of all the scratches, only the one by his temple, one on the bridge of his nose, one over his eye, and three on his cheeks bled again.

‘Only’.

Those were the ones he brushed some of the liquid bandage onto.

Finally, with some relief, he handed Stiles the ice-packs. Stiles pressed them both against his face, one on each side, and brought his knees right back up to bury his face in.

John set the first-aid supplies aside again, then stood and carefully eased himself into the chair first beside Stiles. He hauled the boy effectively in his lap, curled up and shuddering.

He hated the looks of pity they got from passing patients, families, and staff, but his son came first. When Stiles pulled his head from his knees and ice packs to press his face against John’s shoulder, John tugged the hood of his little sweatshirt up to give him some semblance of privacy, then wrapped his hand around Stiles’ head, pulling him close.

“I tried not to look.”

Stiles spoke so softly, that John almost didn’t hear it – almost.

“It’s not your fault,” John began.

“She _hates_ me!” Stiles cried out, voice muffled by John’s shoulder. He still didn’t look up.

And why would he? He was just attacked by his own mother for it.

“No, no,” John said. “It’s not-” He swallowed, and started again. “It’s the dementia. She doesn’t quite realize who you are, that’s all. She’s made mistakes, before – remember when she thought the raccoon was a cat?”

Stiles slowly, stiffly nodded.

“This was just a…an extreme version of that,” John said. He pursed his lips, and hated that he was probably about to lie to his own son, but… “It’s probably because she loves you so much. The disease latched onto the strongest things she felt, and there is nothing stronger than how much she loves you.”

Stiles sniffled. “Dad…she…she-”

“She loves you,” John said firmly. “She just doesn’t always realize that you’re _you_.”

Silence and trembling, his boy warm against his chest except for the cold spots of the fallen ice-packs. Despite being ten years old, Stiles was still scrawny enough that he could, with a bit of contorting, remain fairly comfortably in John’s lap in the chair, letting John hug him close and curling up like he was a kindergartener again.

“…she knew who I was when she told me to stop looking at her,” Stiles finally said. “She said my name, told me…to…”

“No, Stiles, I don’t mean she literally thinks you’re someone else,” John said. “It’s like…forgetting. She forgets things. She loves you the most, so that’s what the disease corrupts the most, but I’ve just known her longer, so even though she doesn’t always remember what she knows and loves about you, the disease has a harder time making her forget about me. That’s all. It’s not your fault at all.”

This explanation was so stupid. Stiles himself would probably poke holes in it tomorrow, and John had no idea what he would do, then.

But right now, it would have to do.

Stiles reached up to tug the hood further down, but also turned his head – leaving only the upper corner of his face and a single eye visible.

(Unfortunately, even that tiny patch of skin bore some scratches, too.)

“I miss her,” Stiles said, unshed tears taunting John from Stiles’ eyes.

She was right on the other side of the wall in front of them, but she might as well have been dead and gone already.

“I know, buddy,” John said, leaning down to press a kiss to the part of the hood covering Stiles’ forehead. “I miss her, too.”

For whatever reason, that proved to be Stiles’ undoing. With a shuddery keen, Stiles grabbed the icepacks to smush his face into and muffle the sound as he finally broke down sobbing, entire body shaking with the force of it as he slumped against John’s chest.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, John holding onto Stiles’ little body tightly and Stiles crying as the hospital life went on around them. He knew that soon, half his own body was numb from the position and from Stiles’ weight. He knew that the doctor came out of Stiles’ room, took one look at them, and turned away to the nurse’s desk to leave them in peace. He knew that Melissa silently came and took the little first aid kit away from the seat next to John.

He knew that he was useless, unable to do anything other than hold Stiles close as he cried himself to sleep.

(Six years later, when Stiles was getting ready for his MRI, all John could see were red scrapes long gone. All he could hear were sobs long suppressed. And all he could think was, _not again please not again let this be anything else-_

Well.

He supposed he got what he wished for.)

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think, good or bad. Concrit is love.
> 
> For now, this fic is complete, but I may add more to it as the season progresses, so if you liked it, hit that 'Subscribe' button.


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